


Clover

by Elliewood



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:59:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliewood/pseuds/Elliewood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock tries a taste of honey.</p><p>Another repost you may already have read back in August 2013 when it was originally published.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clover

 

His first words to me this morning are, "Scotty made scones.  You should try one.  They're fucking amazing."

I seat myself across the table from him.  "Good morning, Captain," I say as I unfold my napkin and place it on my lap (my mother took great care to instruct me in correct Terran table manners).

His eyes are on mine as he shovels a forkful of scrambled egg into his mouth, carelessly (so careless) dropping some into his own lap.  I pretend not to notice; the lady Amanda reminded me frequently that the essence of good manners is not to embarrass others, rather to make them feel at ease.  "I'm serious, Spock.  Go on over there--" he motions with his head toward the table to my left "--and get you one."  He lifts his coffee cup and slurps a mouthful.

I acquiesce.

"Hey!"  Lieutenant Uhura greets me with her usual dazzling smile.  "Oh my god, Spock, try one.  They're to die for.  And they're vegan, Scotty promised."  She gestures toward a plate displaying a small pile of roughly triangular bread-like items just as Ensign Chekov reaches for one, procures it, and takes a bite.  His eyes roll upward.

" _Bozhe moy_ , it is so good, Mr. Spock.  Here, I get one for you."  He reaches again for the pile, but Nyota deftly intercepts his hand and swats it away.  She lifts the entire plate toward me instead, inviting me to choose my own.  I accept the offering, nod my thanks, and return to the captain's table.

After seating myself, I lift the item to my nose and sniff.  "It has an odor of spice and some manner of fruit."

"They're cinnamon-raisin.  Take a bite."  He has already, apparently, indulged; a half-eaten scone rests on his plate next to the remainder of his scrambled eggs.

I do so, examining the texture and aroma of the scone as I move it around in my mouth.  It is dense and delicately flavored and very, very dry.

"It is not unpleasant, although somewhat desiccated."

"Yeah, he swears that's the way they're supposed to be.  Great-grandma's recipe handed down from her peat-burning kitchen in Aberdeen.  He eats them with something called clotted cream, which between you and me sounds disgusting, but he says it's to offset the dryness.  Uhura likes hers with butter for the same reason.  And I like mine with...ta  _da_!"  

He places an item on the table between us -- a transparent plastic container in the rough shape of an incongruously grinning Terran ursine, its head strangely pointed.  From the crudely tied ribbon around the neck of the pointy-headed bear, I presume this is a gift from him to me.  I raise an eyebrow.

"Honey.  It's real honey, from North America.  I special ordered it two months ago and picked it up at Starbase 17 when we were there last week.  I thought you might like it."  His head tilts to one side as if to gauge my reaction.

I lift the oddly shaped bottle in my hand to examine it more closely, particularly its holographic label depicting a preternaturally blue sky, a lurid yellow sun, and a field of pink and white flowers in which a winged arthropod flies erratically.  An idealized Earth scene, I surmise.   The bottle itself contains a thick, translucent liquid, golden brown in color with tiny crystals floating within, giving it a strange and beautiful iridescence.  

"Fascinating.  What is it used for?"

"It's a sweetener, but much  _much_  better than what you get from the replicators.  Even better than real sugar."

"What is its source?"

"Bees make it.  Honeybees.  That's one on the label."  He points toward the gold-and-black striped insect that stutters from blossom to blossom.  I become suspicious.

"Its coloration is arresting.  Is it venomous?"

"Only if you're allergic to bee stings.  And you really have to piss off a honeybee before it will sting you."  He scratches absently at the back of one hand, his eyes still fixed on me.

"So this honey is an animal product?"

"Yeah, but not like meat, so it's okay for you to eat.  The bees suck nectar from flowers, like that clover there, and make the honey from it, as food for the hive."

"I see, just as mammals synthesize milk for their young.  However, I do not partake of dairy products, as they rely on the subjugation and subsequent discomfort of sentient life."

"Honey is different.  We just harvest it from the beehive, without hurting the bees, I swear.  It's not like milking a cow.  The bees excrete it spontaneously."

"You are attempting to convince me to voluntarily ingest insect excrement?"

"Um, it's not excrement, exactly...it's more like...bee vomit.   But really, really tasty, sweet vomit."

"Captain, that is only marginally less unappetizing."

"Oh, come on.  Don't knock it 'til you've tried it."   He removes the cap from the bear's pointy head and squeezes some of the contents onto my plate, then dips his (unused, I was pleased to note, as he drinks his coffee black, not that I would have mentioned it otherwise) teaspoon into the golden syrup to remove a portion.  He touches a corner of his scone to the pool of honey on his spoon and bites it off.  His eyes close as he chews and swallows.  "Mmmmm," he hums, then flips the spoon over to lick off the remainder of the thick liquid with the tip of his tongue.  "Goddamn,  that's delicious."

I force myself to breathe against the sudden constriction in my chest.

"Your turn.  Give it a try.  I promise you'll love it."  He takes a swallow of coffee and watches me over the brim of his cup.

I copy his motions, dipping the tip of my knife into the syrup and placing it somewhat hesitantly in my mouth.  The flavor is indeed sweet but not cloyingly so, its unreplicated nature evident from a slight, pleasant mustiness reminiscent of soil.  I spread the honey across the entire surface of my tongue by pushing against my hard palate and releasing the unexpected complexity of its bouquet, tasting wind and earth and pollen and bees and sunshine and sweat and a vision bursts into my consciousness. 

_my hands wrenching off first the gold shirt, then the black, then pushing him down onto my bed, his blue eyes wide with surprise, the pupils constricting in shock as my hand roams upward from his lean abdomen across his chest to cup his jaw, his mouth opening to form a question that I prevent by inserting my thumb between the pink of his lips to invade that cool delicious space, the fingers of my other hand burrowing in his honey-colored hair as I pull his head down to my pillow, my body covering his, my hips pinning his down, his eyes meeting mine and reading the intent therein and darkening now in understanding and desire, his teeth bared as he seizes my thumb between them to hold it steady, his tongue swirling around it, his legs crossing behind mine, his hands meeting across my  lumbar region to pull me in tighter, his torso arching upward under me, presenting his throat for me to sting and suck and taste and_

"Well, what do you think? Do you like it?" Blue eyes innocent, questioning. I inhale and exhale once, my heart a hammer in my side.

"Yes," I reply, and again, unnecessarily, "Yes. It is acceptable."

He smiles, pink and white and golden. "Sweet."

 


End file.
